My Pretty Jungle Flower
by Illusion Of Gain
Summary: VolginOFC. This is Chapter 6. Rrah!
1. Storm Brewing

_A/N: Ok, it's hard to say that you like Volgin, what with all the mindless violence and all, but everyone's entitled to have one than one dimension demonstrated, aren't they? So, I wanted to pad out the Bond-villain-esque manic into something a little more, dare I say, human? He's as intriguing as he is horrifying, and long overdue a little fanfic exposure. I've translated a few spoken lines into Russian, just so you get the idea. Read and review, please. "It sucks" will be viewed positively..._

Disclaimer: I don't own jack. Or any other characters. Har har har! Except Lenusya. Of course.

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

I never expected to be assigned to Groznyj Grad. In truth, I never fully expected to be assigned anywhere after so many years slaving away in the bowels of Kirovo-Chepetsk's Care Home, a glorified death house that was still struggling to undo the years of damage that Stalinist rule had caused. A home for the insane, the elderly, the terminally ill and the "undesirables" in the community, it housed over two hundred wards and only thirty able-bodied souls to man it.

I was one of them.

My mother had died there in 1953, crippled with tuberculosis at the age of forty-five. My father had died in the war, and so I had nowhere to go. The Warden offered me a bed in return for my services, and I agreed. He was a corpulent, pious traditionalist who mourned every day over the death of Stalin that year. He used to lecture me about the value of a "strong hand" while he puffed on a pungent pipe and I went about my work, collecting the bed linens from the rooms, washing and bleaching them, then hanging them to dry in the constant chill of the Kirovskaya air. Whether I was the only one who would listen, or whether he truly sensed in me a kindred spirit, I don't know. I couldn't say I did know the value of a "strong hand". Both my mother and father refused to so much as look at me, let alone touch me. I didn't tell the warden this, merely nodded politely and stoically when he called me to his office specifically to rant about how if it were up to him, he'd liquidate every last one of the wards in the Home. He said that Stalin had the right idea when he purged the country of the cancers that were living off the hard working folks like him.

And that's how it went for ten years. I kept my head down, I did my work, I listened to the Warden as he bent my ear about "undesirables". It was a few days before my twenty-forth birthday that he announced I was to be transferred. I cared little. In the ten years I had been there, I had made no friends, not so much as an acquaintance among the staff or the wards in the Home. I was, however, surprised to find out that the transfer was to a military facility in the East. The name and exact location was classified. I was told nothing else, except that I was to tell no one of my transfer. The Warden muttered about how they needed someone diligent, level-headed and above all, quiet. It made me smile, in spite of course, to see that the warden was upset to see me go. No doubt he had become accustomed to my being there, comforted by my pleasant, soft appearance. He would often, when drunk, embrace me, touch me. He would tell me how he loved my warm, sleek curves, the smell of my fine, blonde tresses; the way I was "put together". I was robust, healthy. The way a woman should be. Built for wear and tear. So he told me.

I gathered the small bundle that contained my entire life, looked around my room one last time and blew a kiss to the poster of Stalin that adorned my wall; a gift from the Warden, to "inspire" me in dark times, he said. The car came for me at midnight, under cover of darkness. Two soldiers in military garb ushered me into the back in hushed voices, where there sat a second woman, older than I, a timid-looking brunette. She had nothing note-worthy about her, and we passed the long journey in silence. Many miles by road, hundreds more by train, where we joined by two more women, again entirely unremarkable. The private military train had blacked out windows, blocking our view of the outside. It was only when the engine came to a halt many hours after we departed that we finally saw our surroundings. The train track came to an abrupt stop on the edge of a densely wooded expanse, where we were to take a helicopter to the final destination of our journey.

My grandfather had told me of the dense jungles of the East, and until that moment, I scarcely believed him. How could such jungles exist so close to the grey, putrid slums of Kirovo-Chepetsk? We were unloaded from the helicopter, again, under cover of night. A clear, cold night, so much clearer than in the city where the street lights stained the sky a sickly orange. This was proper night, inky black and full of wild noises that made my flesh crawl. We were lined up and counted, a strange act, considering there were but four of us. Our names were called out to us. I didn't catch the other women's names, I didn't really care to. One was perhaps Natalya, one maybe Svetlana; common names like that.

"Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova?" Came the call from one of the soliders, barked into the quiet night.

«Да.»(1) I said clearly. Evidently, it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

«Да, господин!»(2) He corrected me, hissing through his cloaked mouth, showing me the barrel of his gun. «Не забудьте его!»(3) He bore the back of his palm, and I tensed in anticipation of the blow. It was then I heard a second voice, so powerful and resonating that my attention was roused.

"Lieutenant! Stand down!" The other women jumped, the soldiers surrounding us flinched. The one who had spoken to me yelped, spun around on his heels, and saluted. I could see the fear behind his eyes as he did so. Who was it that inspired such terror within these young servicemen? Put the very fear of God in them?

As it turned out, he was not so very far from godliness.

He emerged from the shadow of the night, fists clenched, towering over every solider there, with a grin and an aura of overwhelming power.

"C-c-colonel Volgin!" The youngster stammered, standing so straight, I feared his spine may snap with the effort. "The ones you requested are here." Holding his salute with a tremble that we all could see, he stepped away from us, as Colonel Volgin approached. The otherworldly eyes of his superior officer followed him, scrutinised him, penetrated him. The officer drew up in front of the rookie, placed a hand on his soldier, and I was sure I heard the young man whimper.

"You forget your manners, Stefan." His grasp audibly tightened, the solider cried out, his knees buckled beneath him. "Don't make me remind you of them…" With that, Colonel Volgin tossed the youngster aside, and approached our line. Starting at the opposite side, he looked intently at each of the women it seemed he himself had requested.

"Please accept my apologies, ladies. Our welcome wagon is not what it used to be…" he said smoothly, passing along the line. In the dark, I heard each of them let out a frightful gasp as he went. The girl next to me covered her mouth and turned away, eyes squeezed shut. It was only when he drew up before me that I could see what had distressed them so.

Scars. Scars that broke the surface of a beautiful face. Though it was twisted with contempt and rage, it was beautiful. Fine, sharp, poignant features carved out of alabaster flesh. I'm sure that the others did not see what I did. In fact, I imagine not even he saw it as I did. It was only then that I became aware that I was staring, gazing upwards at a man who had just brought a solider to his knees for speaking out of turn. And the strangest thing was, he was staring back. When my well-learned modesty finally took hold, I lowered my gaze and turned my head slightly. He protested by taking my chin within his hand. I heard the creak of rubber and smelled it from his fingers. I liked it.

"What's your name?" he asked me, his grip tightening slightly around my jaw. I let a small cry of anguish escape my lips, because I knew it was what he wanted to hear. He gave a grunt of approval.

"Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova…" I said meekly, my innocence and naivety well performed . He laughed heartily, and discreetly drew my body closer to his.

"I know of your family, Lenusya Grigorovna Romanova…" he chided me, "Proud war heroes!" he laughed again. I wasn't sure how to take this. My grandfather, Vassily Romanova, went to war for the Tsar in 1915, securing one of the Russian Armies few victories in East Prussia. Yet, my father, who went to war shortly after I was born in 1939, was an infamous deserter, shot through the heart as he ran for his life from the battlefield during the Battle of Stalingrad in 1942. I was willing to imagine that Colonel Volgin knew of both my father and my grandfather.

"Yes, sir…" I managed to say. At this, he grunted another laugh, and brought his face close to mine. I felt him inhale, savour my scent and then I felt a snap of energy jolt through me. I jumped, shocked and excited, turned those pleasantly surprised eyes on him curiously. He released my chin, and took a step back.

"You're much better in the flesh, Lenusya…" he said slowly, producing my photograph from his pocket and flicking it across my nose playfully. The side of my mouth twitched into a curved smile as he continued, leaning close into me once again. «мой милый цветок джунглей.»(4)

(1) "Yes."

(2) "Yes, sir!"

(3) "Don't forget it!"

(4) "My pretty jungle flower." (Literal translation: "My dear flower of the jungle")


	2. The First Strike

_A/N: Warning! There's some unpleasantness in this chapter. No more Russian, I think. It causes more problems than the style value is worth! There'll be some Latin though, just a spattering!…Thanks to my reviewers! You're both very fine writers and your opinion means a lot! Cheers! Bare with me, it's a difficult story to write, I'm trying to approach Volgin through the eyes of this girl. It's not easy…_

Disclaimer: I don't even own these pants! Lenusya is my creation, though, so back off!

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

Chapter 2

I settled into my duties more quickly than the other women who had arrived with me. Mostly they took to cowering in the corridors, pressing themselves into the grey walls when a soldier would pass, heads turned and eyes averted in some sort of show of humility. They slept together, they ate together, they showered together. Truly, they valued their innocence more than their independence. However, it didn't save them. Innocence never does. Even as they huddled together in their room during the night, where I sat at the opposite end, regarding the view from the high window, watching the shadows of the jungle cross the face of the moon, we could hear the soldiers approach, whispering outside for several moments before they would throw the door wide open and send the girls into a mad, shrieking scrabble to defend themselves. The officers came first, the highest ranking among them took their pick of the flailing rabble, and the others carried her off to his quarters, where I imagine after he had his fill, they indulged themselves too. It continued like this, night after night, each of the young women being stolen from their bed in the witching hour to satisfy some greedy soldiers need. Now when they cowered in the corridors, they shivered with genuine fear, collected bed linens pressed against their tear-stained faces when one of those horrific soldiers passed, precious little things ruined by the hands of men.

Yet through all this, I couldn't help but wonder what they had expected. Three quiet, pretty young girls brought to work here, in a military facility in the middle of nowhere, completely inhabited by men? Each one a guaranteed virtue. Obviously, their score of years had done little to teach them of the way the world was. "_Sic transit gloria mundi" _(1) as my grandfather had said. Life is simply a succession of tolerable pains, and if you're lucky, it'll end peacefully. I never really felt pain, I never really cried. I never really felt anything. I just was. No one ever hurt me, because no one ever knew me. It was that simple.

Even though I lived with these girls, we were worlds apart. I knew they resented me, even though their pallid faces said differently, because thus far, none of the soldiers had touched me. Not one of them dared. The girls came to me one night, begging me to use whatever influence I had to bring their mistreatment to an end.

"Why do you come to me? I have no influence here." I lied.

The soldiers regarded me with suspicion, laced with the fear that someone might see that suspicion. The order had obviously come from above that I was not to be interfered with. I could only guess at where such an order had came from. In fact, I knew. Of course I knew. Everyone knew. That's why they treated me with such contrived courtesy. I didn't complain. Colonel Volgin's desire to have a monopoly upon my "affections" kept me safe from the wickedness that ran rampant in the corridors of Groznyj Grad. It also kept me annexed from every other soul in the facility. Yet, I hadn't so much as seen the man since the first night we arrived. The man was bizarrely secretive. Reclusive even. The kind of person who caused such terror for the short moments he was around, that it was pointless to remain any longer. He couldn't scare these soldiers anymore than he already had.

It was the Tuesday of the third week of my being there that I saw him again.

He was accustomed to taking tea before he retired in the evenings, at ridiculous times of the day. I worked on and off in the kitchen, catering to the half starved convicts/conscripts of the facility. That particular evening he requested that tea be served in his rooms at exactly 19:53, and that I must serve it. The prestige was welcomed, if not predicted. I prepared his tray, cursing the vagrant quiver in my right hand as I went. A single silver teapot filled only with hot water, his silver tea leaf filter with the delicate silver chain that hung over the side of the cup, already stuffed with fragrant leaves (I wore my fingertips raw removing their course veins), a small china cup and a small sugar bowl. He may have been a monster, but he was a monster with a sweet tooth. He drank his tea black. _"Black as his heart!"_ The other girls commented. I thought them bold to make such a judgement, as they had seen as little of him as I. He liked to watch the tea leaves "corrupt" the water into that derisive brown colour. As valid a way to take one's pleasure as any, I mused as I left the kitchen with my precious cargo.

His was a large room at the end of a corridor. There were several other rooms in this same hall, none of them occupied. Drawing myself up in front of the large, mahogany (I noted, the only one in the facility) door, I struggled to balance the tray on one hand as I rapped with my knuckles.

"You're late. Come in." Came the response. I inhaled sharply. This was not a good start. Again, I struggled to straighten out the uniform I wore with a single hand. All of us had been given the same dress. It reminded me of a nurse's uniform, sterile and white, it buttoned from our sternum all the way down to the hem of the skirt, which was ludicrously short. Again, what did we expect? It was not designed with comfort or style in mind, merely functionality and ease of access. The back of the skirt creased when we sat and the material strained over our chests causing what turned out to be a great source of amusement for the soldiers. I opened the heavy door awkwardly, and had to push it open with my back as I held the tray steady. To my surprise, when I turned around, Colonel Volgin was sitting at his desk, in an armchair of all thing, staring at me, his ever present sneer of a grin etched across his face. I stood completely still, until he beckoned me forward with the crook of his index finger, and I laid the tray in front of him, cursing that straining material as I did so. The last thing I needed was for a button to pop loose and hit him in the eye!

It was only then that I took a look around his quarters. It was unlike any other room in Groznyj Grad. The walls had solid oak panelling. One wall was adorned with a Soviet flag that hung proudly against the wooden background. The floor too was wooden, but was covered by a red carpet that stretched over all but a few feet of the room. Bookcases, atlases, maps strewn across a coffee table in the corner, even a telescope! It was like stepping onboard on 18th century Russian galley! And there sat Vice-Admiral Zakhary Mishukov himself! Clearly he was a traditionalist as much as a progressive fundamentalist! I stood aghast for a moment.

"Not what you expected, hmm?" he inquired, arching a single eyebrow. He sounded almost proud, but in a way impatient with my reaction.

"No, sir." It was the absolute truth. He grunted a laugh, and leaned forward to pour the hot water into the china cup, the leaf filter already giving colour to the liquid. It was then that he said something very strange.

"Please, call me Yevgeny." he said deftly, leaning back in his chair, with a solid creak of the wooden legs as they battled to support his very tangible weight. Yevgeny. From the English name Eugene, meaning "well born" if I wasn't mistaken. My grandmother had a penchant for useless knowledge like that.

So… Thunderbolt was very much human.

If I regarded him questioningly, I wasn't aware of it, but he picked up on it immediately. He looked at me with impressive concentration, as though he were attempting to discern something that I would not tell him.

"What? You thought I had no name, is that it?" he questioned me, accusingly, narrowing his eyes slightly, whilst maintaining that intriguing smile of his. I started to speak, then regretted it.

"No, sir!" I protested, "It's just that I inquired as to what your name was, and no one seemed able to tell me…" I trailed off, annoyed and frustrated at my inability to communicate. "I just assumed…" I attempted a new line of speech. He silenced me almost before I began.

"Why would you be asking about me?" he asked confidently, inclining his head to one side. He knew instantly that he had me exactly where he wanted me. I stammered, made a show of wringing my hands. My mouth opened and closed like a dying perch, like the ones my grandfather used to catch to make ukha (2) in the winter months. For all my "biting intelligence", he had indeed caught me out.

"I…I…don't know, sir." I conceded, admitting my defeat and regarding the carpeted floor. As I continued to squirm on his hook, he seemingly released me, by standing slowly and coming around the desk to join me where I stood. I continued to look at the floor. I daren't look up at him. Those small hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, just as they had the first night I met him. That strange, static charge crept along the length of my spine unchecked. Instead of stopping next to me, he moved on, walking past me with his arms braced along the base of his back. Then he spoke with his back turned to me.

"The drones that inhabit this facility don't need to know my name. They do their job all the same." he said. I noticed how he stressed certain words in his sentence, 'need' and 'job'. It was unique. He tended to roll his head on his shoulders when he did it. I smiled. He turned around to face me so quickly, that I had no time to wipe that smile away. I bit my lip in an attempt disguise it, but he had already seen it. Three concrete footfalls brought him back before me, a sense of inevitability washed over me.

"But you…" he continued. I hadn't expected him to, and in my surprise, I lifted my gaze to meet his. "You're no soldier. No cut-throat mercenary." His tone was fond. Even affectionate. His hand closed around my jaw again, then slipped down my exposed neck. An oddly gentle touch, given his reputation, until his fingers tightened slightly around my throat. "You're my pretty jungle flower, aren't you?" he concluded, inclining my head by his own hand. He must have felt me swallow. He must have felt everything. With his fingers clamped around my pulse, he must have felt it race with a mixture of fear and elation.

"Yes, Yevgeny…" I squeaked, my eyelashes fluttering as his grip tightened again. At this he laughed uproariously, and for a brief moment, I swore he was about to kiss me! I was ready for it, too. But he didn't. He released me, and moved me aside as he walked back to his chair.

"Now, go." he said, waving a hand in dismissal. I hesitated. My stomach churned. I'm not sure whether it was with relief, or disappointment. Probably both.

"But I thought…" I began to speak again. I don't know what I thought! Or why I felt so hard done by. He silenced me with a look.

"Not tonight." Was all he said, again waving me off with a flick of his hand. I exhaled sharply, and gave him a nod before I left. It occurred to me as I walked back to the kitchen that perhaps I had read the situation entirely the wrong way. The older girl who worked with me in the kitchen threw her arms around me when I returned. She was obviously surprised to see me back in one piece.

"Not so much as a black eye!" she said triumphantly. "Be thankful he's lost interest!"

But I wasn't.

(1) "So it goes" (Literally: "So passes the glory of the world.")

(2) A Russian fish soup. Mmmm, uhka! It's good, trust me!


	3. Want

_A/N: Yay! Ocelot cameo! Thanks again to Shadowstar, thanks for your encouragement! It's much needed and much appreciated! Shadow-Ocelot is deserving of a shout-out as well, congrats on your latest chapter! My, my! All these Shadows! Wow, this fic is certainly gathering its own momentum! 0.0 There's some French in this chapter, and some more Latin, but not too much! Translations are provided, as usual. And, er, there's some Volgin lovin'… don't say I didn't warn you! _

Disclaimer: If I owned Metal Gear Solid, would I be writing mediocre fan fiction? Just think about it. Lenusya belongs to me, though.

Song inspiration comes from "Want" by Disturbed.

"_Quivering now, shivering now, withering._

_Your mind won't let you say that you're_

_wondering now, pondering now, hungering._

_Won't let you say that you're_

_questioning, wavering, weakening._

_Your mind won't let you say that you're_

_hearkening, listening, heeding me now._

_Won't let you say that you want."_

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

Chapter 3

It was soon after that second meeting that I started to believe that my precarious position in the Groznyj Grad hierarchy was becoming most tenuous. As it seemed Colonel Volgin had indeed lost interest in me, the soldiers who had previously regarded me with guarded apprehensiveness, now leered at me in the corridors, every now and again a bold one would stop my way, refuse to let me past until I 'asked nicely'. They tried their luck at every opportunity, each one certain that my brief period of protection had come to an end. Ironically, it was at this time that I felt most confident. On arriving, I rarely opened my mouth unless it was necessary, but now I actually sought to converse with the soldiers that accosted me. It was my way of defending myself. There's nothing that a predatory male finds quite so off-putting as a woman who could match him, or even surpass him with wit. The most interesting of the characters that I struck up some sort of rapport with was a young Major, scarcely nineteen years of age and completely dauntless. Ocelot, they called him. We called him "Spurs".

Our first encounter was in the mess hall, where I was serving the evening meal. I'd never seen him in there before. I later discovered that did not spend all of his time in Groznyj Grad, and frequently went AWOL. He was a Major. He could do as he pleased. He strode into our humble mess hall, heels and spurs clicking on the floor, with an arrogant but confident swagger that made me imagine he had just tied his horse up outside. What struck me most about him was his physical similarity to the Colonel. Close-cropped blonde hair, the sharp, Aryan features and that fierce glint in his eye that stopped most men dead. I watched him approach our small counter. He watched everyone else in the room except me.

"What's on the menu tonight?" he inquired, his face still turned from me, as he locked eyes with every wary solider in there. _"Menu?" _I thought to myself. Sweet, deluded soul.

"Stew, sir." I said simply, inclining my head slightly so that I was not talking to the back of his neck. I heard him make a noise of disgust in his throat, before he finally swung around and showed me that boyish, petulant face of his.

"I hate stew." he said, screwing his features up childishly. He may have sought to be like the Colonel, but was still a boy at heart. He had large boots to fill. I held back my amusement and placed my palms down on the counter, leaning forward a bit. I realised afterward how patronising my voice was, and how brassy I was to think I could get away with it.

"Well, Major, what would you prefer? Stale bread? Or perhaps rotten rat meat?" I asked of him, arching a single eyebrow scathingly. Much too scathingly. I almost forgot how dicey my position was there. Had he chosen to swing a fist in my direction, no one, least of all me, would have taken umbrage. But he didn't. He merely fixed me with a steely gaze. A gaze that I had seen before in his commanding officer. Most compelling of all, I watched as the corners of his mouth curved into an impressive replica of Colonel Volgin's sneer.

"So, you're the flavour of the month?" He pointed an accusing gloved finger at me, and added a capricious "huh" after a moment. It was neither approving nor condemning, merely blithely passive. The truth was, I didn't know whether I was or not. So I said nothing, simply blinked and waited for him to continue. He might have told me something of interest.

"The Colonel said you were gutsy…" he went on, scrutinising my expression for any hint that I may give away my present state of mind. "I'd say you were loudmouthed, myself…" He scowled, but I couldn't help smiling. He really did brighten up my day, even though his intentions were undoubtedly to do the exact opposite. He reminded me of my little brother Mishka, when he used to walk around in my father's old army boots, falling over after every two steps. Then my smile faded slightly. When I thought about it, if Mishka were still alive, he'd be about Ocelot's age. The Major was only a child. Caught up in the quarrels of men that he had not caused. It made me recall the bitter lamentations of my grandfather as he recited that English poem to us in our youth.

"_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori." (1)_

I didn't understand the words then, but they started to make frightening sense now. I was jolted back into reality when the Major banged his fist on the metallic counter.

"Hey! What's your problem?"

------

The thought stayed with me for most of the evening, and as it did, I was faced with a certain curiosity with regards to this youngster. I say youngster, though he was not so much younger than myself. I knew there was only one place that I could get the information I desired, since the ground troops refused to so much as look in my direction. I sought to ask directly from the Colonel himself. It was not easy. I had to force my way past four pairs of armed guards posted between my room and the Colonel's. They threatened to shoot me, lock me up in the cells, but I knew not one of them would attempt to enforce any such threat. When I finally reached the familiar mahogany door, I was being followed by eight guards each brandishing their gun and fruitlessly imploring me to turn back. I threw open the door, only to have a guard run into the room before me.

"Colonel, sir! We tried to stop her…" He made his flustered excuse, already trembling. The Colonel, as it happened, was standing with his back to us looking out the window. He delayed several moments before he turned around to the small assembled group.

"Leave us." he boomed, and in a flurry of green uniforms and automatic weapons, they were all gone. It all happened so quickly, that I was left stupidly looking behind me at the closed door. My attention was soon reclaimed by the recognizable groan of rubber as he clenched his fists. As I turned to look at him, I forgot everything that I came here to ask him, and infuriatingly, I was left completely wordless before him again. In the silence, I noticed there was music playing. Music! In Groznyj Grad! It came from an antique-looking gramophone that sat on the coffee table. The sweet, despondent tones of Edith Piaf filled the room with the positive lyrics of _"Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"_.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he began. His voice had an odd, almost weary quality to it. "It was stolen by a Nazi soldier from the French town of Beauvais, discovered when the Soviet Army liberated the Auschwitz concentration camp in April 1945… given to me by my father." He concluded, looking to his feet as he spoke of his father. "I like to think I have an eye for exquisite things." I didn't know how to respond, but in a way I was touched by the story, and how proud he was of this trinket. "I'm glad you've come to see me, Lenusya. What can I do for you?" He took a few steps towards me, allowing the suggestion to drip from his words as I stood bemused. Why wasn't he angry at my intrusion? I had formulated every angle of my apology (none of which I could remember at this moment) before I arrived, and now found it completely unnecessary. Yet, as he took another step towards me, I finally regained my lucidity, straightened up and continued with what I came there to ask.

"Colonel Volgin…"

"Yevgeny."

"Yevgeny…" I took a moment to inhale raggedly. "Tell me about Ocelot?"

The minute I asked the question, his expression changed. An unbecoming look of confusion and perplexity mixed with… something else. I hesitated to think it was jealousy, but secretly hoped it was. He grunted and rediscovered his indifferent countenance.

"Ocelot?" His stupefaction was well disguised, but evident. "What about him?" This time, it was I who took a step forward, turning beseeching eyes on him. He, in turn, broke into a smile, approaching me anew. He drew up in front of me, pinched my cheek gently between his thumb and index finger, before he lifted his hand over my head. I flinched, oblivious as to his intentions. He showed me the small, paper hat that the kitchen staff wore, and that I had neglected to remove in my hurry to see him. My cheeks flushed cerise, but we both smiled as he discarded the ugly cap in a nearby waste paper basket. Surprisingly, the basket was already half filled with scrunched up paper balls, normally the telltale sign of a frustrated artist. Several had missed the basket entirely and lay in erratic positions around the perimeter. I lost all interest in Major Ocelot, although Colonel Volgin didn't intend for my question to go unanswered.

"In June 1944, a small GRU detail was sent to a field hospital in Normandy under orders to find a baby, the son of a great military hero. I was one of the soldiers within that detail, a young Major, in fact." It seemed he had just realised the irony. "Needless to say, there was only one newborn amongst the injured." He paused, looked to the ceiling and folded his arms, as if lost in reminiscence. "Torn from his mother's very entrails on the battle field, he howled like the devil in spite of himself. So, we took him back to the Motherland, where he was raised by the GRU, and he fell into the Spetsnaz ranks…"

Spetsnaz, GRU, great military heroes. None of this made any sense to me. At that moment, I realised that I cared little about Ocelot. I had been fooling myself into thinking that I did, in order to justify an audience with the Colonel, because the reality of my desire was truly shameful. In a daring move, I moved forward and grasped his hand with intrepid fingertips. It was enough to stop him in mid sentence. Clearly, he had failed to anticipate such a brave action. So had I, frankly, but I didn't care. I wanted him to hear me.

"Colonel Volgin…"

"Yevgeny, please…" he soothed.

"Yevgeny…" I smiled briefly, squeezing his hand slightly. "I have a confession to make." His lips twitched into an amused smile.

"Please, my dear Lenusya, vent your soul!" he exclaimed, using my own grip against me to draw me closer. And willingly, I went, with a vixen flick of my hair.

"I didn't come here to ask about Ocelot. I'm not even convinced I care much about him." I swallowed a breath, finding it nigh on impossible to hold his heated gaze. Now that we were sharing space, warmth, even breath, my head was feeling increasingly light. I swayed against him, raising the flats of my hands to his chest to steady myself. I became aware again of the music in the room. _"Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"_ had melted into the sombre lull of _"Tu Es Partout"_.

"_Des fois je rêve que je suis dans tes bras," (2)_

"Really?" He positively purred, moving forward slowly, nudging the tip of my shoes with his boots and obliging me to step backwards. Another two steps brought me back against the wall with the entirety of his weight against me.

"_Et qu'à l'oreille tu me parles tout bas," (3)_

Until now, I had only ever sensed his power, felt his potency. Yet now, the charge that lay within him sprang to life, sending tongues of flicking blue energy coursing through his limbs and into mine. It cracked and snapped before my eyes, heated my body through and weakened my knees. I felt, but did not hear a scream of wonderful anxiety escape my lips.

"_Tu dis des choses qui font fermer les yeux," (4)_

"I'm glad you've come to see me, Lenusya…" he said again, prolonging my exquisite torture a moment longer before he released me. Through heavily lidded eyes, I could see his sneer clearly as his lips descended upon mine.

"_Et moi, je trouve ça marveilleux." (5)_

_What a sinfully long night that was…_

(1) "Sweet and fitting it is to die for one's country."

(2) "Sometimes I dream that I'm in your arms,"

(3) "And you speak softly in my ear,"

(4) "You tell me things that make my eyes close,"

(5) "And I find that marvellous."

_Notes: Grah. I think I lost the muse there, somewhere at the end. It's not easy to portray Volgin as some sort of Sex God! It's certainly turning into a challenge. Edith Piaf is in there half jokingly, for a touch of overblown sentiment!_


	4. Dance with the Devil

_A/N: Shadow-Ocelot, thanks for the feedback. -pokes-You looove Volgin, you want to kiiiiss him! Hehe, I amuse myself. I know what you mean though, I'm beginning to get strangely fond of the brute myself! Looking forward to your next chapter!_

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

Chapter 4

I stayed in his room that night, which was in itself, quite an achievement. I was told much later, by Major Ocelot in fact, that he rarely invited his conquests to stay the night. Indeed, many a half naked prospect had been shown the door when he had his fill. I couldn't blame him. Truthfully, what was there to be said after an occasion like that? The circumstances were far from normal. Even though the Colonel asked me to stay, we passed most of the early morning in silence. On my part, at least, I'd said everything that needed to be said during the night. Or rather, squealed it at the ceiling. I had nothing to compare the experience with, admittedly, so my perception was understandably skewed. I hadn't so much as seen a man who wasn't a ward during my time in the Care Home, let alone one who was as physically... intriguing as the Colonel. He was understanding, but not gentle. Patient, yet demanding. Completely enigmatic, particularly given the fact that I was a virgin and, well... how best to word it delicately? The Colonel was perfectly proportioned, as it were.It was about 4am when I rose from that oversized bed. His bedroom was separated from his office space by a thin wall, that I imagined hadn't always been there. Ironically, most of the nights exploits had not involved the bed at all, but the desk, the windowsill, the coffee table, the bookcase, the floor…

I tinkered around his office, bare breasted in the early morning light. He watched me through the door, but said nothing. So I played him at his own game, stood completely naked and watched him back. It wasn't long before he barked a laugh and went to stand by the window behind the desk. It was raining, and a thin mist rose slowly from the mountains. My plaintive Adonis. Crimson lines snaked along his entire body, where the immense current within his body had broken the skin in thin, continuous trails. Once that infuriating red exoskeleton had been removed, it had amused me greatly to follow those paths with the tip of my finger. He had not been as impressed. Most of them led to palm sized lesions, where his very skin seemed to have been burned away. One on his right shoulder, one just above his right hip, one on the base of his back, and of course, one on the left side of his face. It struck me that he must have endured terrible pain in his life, and for a moment I pitied him. But the feeling left almost as soon as it came upon me.

"So, Colonel, what is it you do here?" I inquired coyly of him, absentmindedly twirling a pencil around my fingers as I sat on his desk. "This fortress has no real strategic military value, unless… you were planning to hide something where no one would find it." I went on. Being in such an environment for so long, where I was expected to shut my mouth and take orders, I had the perfect opportunity to observe. For someone who was as naturally perceptive as I was told I was, the secrets of Groznyj Grad were slowly but surely being revealed to me through the words and actions of the people who lived there. He smiled his custom smile, but didn't look at me. "What are you planning to hide, Colonel?"

"Some things are better left secrets, my dear Lenusya…" He attempted to satiate me with a cryptic answer. I rebuked him.

"I want to know your secrets…" I said, inclining my head to one side, although he continued to look though the window. This brought a somewhat bitter sound from his lips. He clenched his fists, although this time without the familiar creak of his gloves that I'd grown so accustomed to.

"You know all of mine. I'm willing to bet you knew everything about me before I even came here…" I continued, rising from the desk and flicking the pages of an open book back and forth. "It seems only fair…" He knew that I was toying with him, but he wasn't one to be toyed with on any account, not even by me. He was a dangerous animal, and this was not a zoo. A taunted animal will always inevitably bite back, no matter how much you think it adores you. He had only to shift his eyes slightly in my direction, and I bit my tongue. I picked up my discarded, crumpled uniform from the floor, and set about buttoning up the ugly garment. He finally turned to look at me, looking almost distressed.

"Where are you going?" His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but not with anger, as they normally would, but with the sudden realization that he would be left alone. He came towards me and quite urgently took my arm, wrapping his fingers around my elbow. I angled my head faintly, casting a dull shadow across one side of my face as I looked up.

"I have to get breakfast ready for your several hundred groggy, hungry soldiers. The kitchen doesn't man itself, you know." He grumbled, reluctantly releasing my arm. I took a step away from him, to find my horrible slip-on shoes that had also suffered the ungrateful fate of being kicked halfway across the room in a particularly frenzied episode. They turned up under the desk, turned away from me. I could almost hear them whisper, "Dirty girl! Pray for your soul!". Interestingly, the voice was vaguely redolent of my own mother's voice. A woman who had turned to God on her death bed. Hypocrite. I steadied myself against the desk as I slipped the shoes on. He was still watching me. "And you…" I pointed casually in his direction, the tip of my tongue protruding slightly from between my lips as I struggled with the shoes. They were at least two sizes too small, but it was to be expected when they were provided by men, who were eternally hopeless at finding the right sizes when it came to women. "You have an inspection today." He groaned as I reminded him, covering his face with a hand. I laughed.

He deplored the routine inspections. They took him almost the entire day to carry out and were dreadfully tedious. I always enjoyed them. It meant that for one day at least, the girls and I were not tormented. Even the day before, the men would be confined to their rooms, furiously polishing their boots and ironing their parade uniforms. They even treated us particularly nicely, in the hope that we would help them. And we did, but not unselfishly. Some of the girls requested contraband; chocolate, cigarettes (none of them had arrived smokers, but had curiously picked up the addiction during their stay), perfume, silly things like that. All I wanted was information. Little bits here and there was all I needed. Many a soldier had spilled his guts while I laundered his uniform, and it all added up in the end.

He inhaled languidly, running his sparking hands along the soft indents of my waist over the crumpled fabric that sighed smoothly under his touch. Gruffly, he pulled me to him and entwined the fingers of his left hand in my hair, weaving the strands around and between his digits. He had a look of childlike awe playing across his features as the soft, sandy curls laced around his hand.

"I'll see you later." he announced, not so much as a means of farewell, but as a command. I acquiesced readily, dipping my head slightly in acknowledgement before I drew away from him slowly. He let the flaxen locks slip through his fingers as I moved away, rubbing his fingertips together when the final strand had eluded him. I walked backwards to the door, keeping him within my sights, until I backed out of the room and made my way to my room to tidy myself up. No doubt the girls would have some questions for me.

-----

That afternoon I watched the Colonel beat a man to death.

The unfortunate was a relatively new recruit to the facility. In fact, he had arrived the day before I had. Captain Aleksandr Dmitrovich Malenkov was a brash new transfer from a similar facility in Kursk. He was in his early forties, and had seen much action in the war. He had a rather becoming scar across his right eye and a stern, uncompromising expression. In all, he was a perfect candidate to keep the junior officers in line. An indisputably attractive man, had I been interested in other men. We often shared smiles in the corridors, when he would wink innocently and click his tongue in the roof of his mouth. It was one such gesture that earned him his transfer to a morgue.

I had made my way to the kitchen that morning as usual, looking decidedly exhausted. I was the subject of much rumor and whispering from the soldiers as they filed into the "dining room" for their measly morning ration of watery porridge. Their miserable faces always disheartened me. I would have dearly loved to cook them a proper breakfast, as I knew the day that faced them was long and arduous, and each was beginning to look like a ghostly image of his former self. Military service in Groznyj Grad was a measured step above laboring in the gulags. The only difference was an AK-47. The faceless recruits were reassured that it would all be worth it when Brezhnev and Kosygin took power. They would not be forgotten when the conservative coalition assumed control of the Motherland, or so the routine lecture went.

Captain Malenkov had lined up with the other junior officers for the lions share of the breakfast. We shared our blameless smiles as we always did, and he went to sit at the officers table. As he went, the entire room went silent as Colonel Volgin walked in. I smiled shortly, as I heard the whole room struggle for breath, before there was a scuffle of chairs as each man made it to his feet to salute. I could virtually hear their hearts beating. The Colonel never ate with the rest of the troops. He never so much as entered the mess hall, unless it was absolutely necessary. He sneered, raised a hand.

"As you were." he ordered. Not one man sat down, but their arms fell gingerly to their sides. The utter silence and the gaping mouths was astounding. And he enjoyed it. He turned to me, behind the wretched kitchen counter, still looking completely dishelved.

"Everything all right?" he inquired, raising his voice a discerning notch, so that the whole hall heard him. What could I do except nod bemusedly? Although, being entirely girlish, I was bowled over by morning-after modesty, and couldn't stop my cheeks from turning a warm shade of cherry. It was exactly his intention, and having accomplished it, he chuckled and made to leave. At that very moment, Captain Malenkov threw me an indulgent wink. No doubt he had intended to show some sort of solidarity in the situation, but the gesture came at exactly the same time as Colonel Volgin turned to look at him. He stopped short, fixed the new Captain with an arctic glower, then smiled and left the hall. Nothing was said, nothing was done. Until the inspection.

I finished my duties early, to watch the main appraisal. All of the girls did. Hundreds of men lined the southern yards of Groznyj Grad, regimented into their troop formations, medals catching the late morning sun. They always turned out splendidly, thanks in part to our help. We watched from the sidelines as Colonel Volgin passed along the ranks, scrutinizing each and every man in the formation. Captain Malenkov stood before a division of privates. He didn't so much as flinch when the Colonel drew up in front of him, towering over him, casting a long shadow. He was the one man in Groznyj Grad, in the East, that had no fear of the Colonel. Or if he did, he disguised it well. However, this foolish characteristic was easily attributed to his newness to the place.

"I trust you are settling in, Captain?" The Colonel asked, his voice echoing off the steel walls in the yard.

"Yes, sir! You run a fine establishment." Malenkov may have been a war veteran, but he was also a skilled boot-licker. The Colonel sneered and gestured grandly around him.

"Well, we do have the finest staff…" His grin became more sinister. "Wouldn't you agree?" He was baiting the Captain, and everyone knew it but him. Malenkov had ingenuously mistaken the words as a joke between officers, breaking into a furtive chuckle. The Captain was well aware of the nightly antics of the men, and although I'd never seen him in our room, he had more than likely enjoyed more than one of my fellow maids. The Colonel laughed along with him for a moment, before something snapped behind his eyes. From our position, we could almost hear it.

A massive hand closed around Malenkov's throat, silencing his laughter with a helpless wheeze. He pawed idly at the determined hand that had fastened around his windpipe with a sickening cry of anguish, lines of saliva escaping from the sides of his mouth, his eyes streaming tears as they rolled back in his head, his boots leaving the ground. Nobody dared move. The soldiers standing next to Malenkov squeezed their eyes shut, lowered their heads, attempting to block out the stomach-turning cries of their suffocating superior. The Colonel's smile had completely dissipated, leaving only a crazed look of self-righteous intensity that I'd never seen before. Just as he sensed the Captain was about to lose consciousness, he relinquished his grip. Malenkov fell gasping and panting to the ground, his trachea surely crushed. Colonel Volgin rotated his arm over his shoulder.

I'd never seen a man cry before, let alone one so strong and fearless as Captain Malenkov. Sobbing uncontrollably, sounding like a strangled animal, he struggled to escape, in a mad scratching crawl away from the Colonel. Realizing the futility of the action, he got to his knees in front of his commanding officer, yelped something about a family, and frantically produced a photograph from his back pocket. Colonel Volgin took the photograph and studied it, allowing one side of mouth to curl into a smile.

"Don't worry, Aleksandr." he said, soothingly. Malenkov looked up hopefully. "I shall send you to them safely enough." I heard Volgin's knuckles crack as he flexed his hand, Malenkov began to shed new tears. He begged for help, though none was forthcoming.

"Oh God! Somebody help me! He's going to kill me! Dear God! I have a family!"

His fraught face looked desperately at his comrades, who avoided his frantic gaze just as urgently. It all sounded distorted and faint. I took an instinctive step forward, only to be violently restrained by the girls. Electricity began to snap and crackle around the Colonel's body, turning the surroundings a pale, sickly shade of blue. His fist connected with Malenkov's jaw, a nauseating crack signaling that the mandible had been dislocated. Another upsetting thud arose when Malenkov's body hit the ground, his skull fracturing against unforgiving gravel and cement. I was surprised when the girls didn't scream. It seemed their desensitization to violence was complete. I could see the sickness rising in the abdomens of the soldiers, a sea of blanching faces, staring blankly ahead. I could hear whispered prayers from petrified lips. I thanked the Lord myself, that at least Malenkov was unconscious now. Volgin lifted his limp body by the neck, shocking him into consciousness once more and dropping him to the ground anew, for one final insult. What a truly deific power, I thought. A hard boot to the Captain's midsection unquestionably broke some ribs, ruptured some organs. Streams of blood and saliva flowed from his mouth, a rivulet of blood trickled from his ear. He ceased to cry. His eyelids had folded over blood-shot orbs, his body twitched once as the current racked his limbs. He drew his final breath.

I think I wept. Solid, frozen tears of anger and confusion. The kind of shock one feels when a beloved pet suddenly turns on a friend, without reason or mercy. My breath burned in my lungs, and I felt myself sink to the ground, where I was encircled by the friendly arms of Svetlana.

I'd shared a bed with the devil.


	5. Not So Very Far

_A/N: Many thanks to my reviewers again! I appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think with words and all! With this chapter, I'm thinking that I'm about halfway through this story. I'll be sad when it's finished. -.- _

Disclaimer: I own a small plot of land in Scotland, but I don't own Metal Gear Solid or its characters. If I did, I'd buy me a bigger plot of land… and maybe an ice-cream!

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

Chapter 5

Groznyj Grad descended into somber, horrified silence that day. Captain Malenkov was given the same hushed eulogy as every other unfortunate in the facility, before they boxed his body in a plain wooden casket and sent him home to his family. It was not an uncommon event, but the men were still moved to sober contemplation each time it happened. At least the sight of death still had the power to provoke them into reflection. Following the event itself, the girls and I retired to our room, where the others preoccupied themselves with cross-stitching or some pointless task like it. The hopeless humming that arose as they went about their labour drove me slowly to distraction. It was then that the youngest of our group laid down her work, and approached me cautiously.

Her name was Agnessa, teetering only a few months away from her eighteenth birthday, the most awkward of times for a young woman. It was no surprise to any of us that during her time there, she had developed the most desperate infatuation with a certain young, blonde Major and truthfully, the older three of us thought that her feelings were completely reciprocated. It gave us small moments of pleasure when Agnessa would meet her Prince Charming in the corridor, and Major Ocelot would clear his throat repeatedly and touch his beret politely. Our adolescent friend would dip her head slightly, as we watched the scarlet creep into both their cheeks before they would move off in opposite directions, looking dolefully over their shoulders. However, Ocelot was forever the little soldier, and that superseded everything, even the need to be a young man, and so whatever there was of a connection between them was left unexplored. Agnessa had subtly latched on to me during her fruitless obsession, declaring that we shared something in common. In a way she was right, we did share a mutual comprehension for the hopeless situations that we found ourselves in. Though Agnessa affirmed that our likeness lay in being "desperately besotted beyond the point of reason". I had argued with her, of course, and she apologized for being impertinent, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize that she may be right. There was nothing like youthful wisdom.

As she drew up before me now timidly, I managed to fix her with an artificial smile, which she returned. She sat down on the bed beside me, and tapped the back of my hand gently. She seemed to find the gesture oddly comforting, although it failed to work for me.

"You're not a bad person, Lenusya…" she said amiably. Whether she actually knew it or not, it was exactly what I needed to hear. I was afraid she didn't mean it. After everything I'd told them that morning about the night I'd had, I felt sure they would regard me as some sort of accomplice to Malenkov's demise, seeing as how I kept close counsel with the Devil himself. They appeared to appreciate, however, that although I had shared the Colonel's bed, his mind remained a complete mystery to me, and probably always would, no matter how physically close we became. It seemed they were worthy of more credit than I afforded them. Congenially, I tapped her hand back and smiled evenly.

The door of our room opened. The girls scattered. All three sought sanctuary behind me. It was the wisest place to be, given the situation. It was a young soldier, only a private who entered, his gun leveled at his side. He had evidently been pulled off patrol to attend to whatever errand he now ran. He had a nervous, panicky look about him that assured me that he was not here to plunder my girls. He pointed his weapon at me briefly.

"You." He lowered the firearm. "The Colonel wants to see you." He stood expectantly, anxiously. I hesitated, Svetlana squeezed my shoulder. I swallowed, angled my head proudly and replied firmly.

"Tell the Colonel that I'm unfortunately indisposed." I answered boldly and sweetly, my eyelashes fluttering instinctively to underline the sarcasm laden in my voice. The private looked as if he had anticipated my response. No wonder he looked so uneasy. If I refused to come, as he rightly predicted I would, he would have to explain my absence to the Colonel. I dreaded to think what would then happen to the youngster. Having considered this, and having seen the colour drain from his face, I stood up sharply, even as the girls tried once again to restrain me.

"On second thoughts, private, it would not bode well for either of us to upset the Colonel…in his present mood." I added in an afterthought. The private sighed outwardly, his gratitude clear but unstated.

"No, Lenusya…" Agnessa begged me quietly, taking my hand lightly. I knew exactly what she meant. Who was to say that the Colonel wasn't just looking for another punching bag? I was taking my life into my own trembling hands by going to him, but how could I refuse?

Magnificent bastard. He knew that I would not decline his offer if made through the jittery wreck of a private that he had sent. He knew my disposition all too well. And it made my spine tingle to think about it.

-----

The private practically threw me into the Colonel's room, and took off down the corridor. Obviously, he wanted to be as far away as possible when this peculiar "meeting" began. I would have been happy to follow him, but it was too late now. Colonel Volgin sat placidly at his desk, not looking up from what ever work had preoccupied him. A good few minutes passed by, with me standing at the door, before he finally looked up and sat back in his chair, regarding me closely but without his typical grin. His intention was to make me nervous, and it worked. It always worked.

"Lenusya," he began, extending his hand, as if we had just met. "You look…interesting." He hinted at a smile, but refused to let it break when I did not take the bait. Since we had all finished our work early to watch the inspection, we had changed out of our dire uniforms for the evening. I wore standard issue black boots, three sizes too big (it made a change from two sizes too small), olive drab combat pants that I had cropped into a decent pair of shorts, and an old white shirt that had been left unclaimed in the laundry. I had haphazardly ripped the sleeves off and cut most of the shoulders and front away. I realized now, in front of the Colonel, what an unhealthy amount of my midsection it revealed. Along with my unruly straw-blonde hair and exhausted face, I'm quite sure that "interesting" was one of the more imaginative words to express my appearance. Yet, I hadn't moved or even gave the vaguest hint of an emotion, merely stared over his shoulder vacantly. That hand that he had so agreeably proffered was slowly retracted, and he grunted, returning to his work.

"You're upset." he muttered, and nodded to himself. "Yes, I knew you would be…"

"A shame you didn't care." I interrupted. I regretted it immediately, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment to reprimand myself. When I opened them once again, the Colonel was looking at me fiercely, stabbing my entire body with that ferocious glare. He began to stand up, leisurely and purposefully. With every loud footfall of his boots as he moved towards me, my fists clenched a little more in anxiety. He took a violent handful of my hair and jerked me to him. I gasped only slightly, for the move was more possessive than threatening. It took an experienced soul to tell the difference, a level of understanding and mutual comprehension that few could ever hope to achieve with the Colonel, and that I had accomplished in such a short space of time. It was the same kind of unspoken awareness that you see with people who train dangerous animals.

"_He's just playing with you. If he was serious, he'd have taken your head off by now."_

His teeth were gritted as he inclined my head to speak viciously in my ear.

"Listen and listen well, my dear. Several days ago I received some disturbing information about your friend, Captain Malenkov. He had never served any time in the Red Army. He was not even drafted during the most desperate times of the war, due to a heart defect that he'd had from birth. I did, however, find his name coming up along with several well-known Nazi sympathizers." It was then that his grip was relinquished slightly, and I raised my gaze to meet his, shocked and intrigued. He began to lovingly smooth out the tousled tresses under his hand. "Aleksandr Malenkov was an anarchist, Lenusya, hell-bent on the downfall of the Motherland after she rejected him. His father is Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov, First Secretary of the Communist Party between 1953 and 1955, and briefly Premier after Stalin's death until he was replaced by Khrushchev. Given his position, it was easy to gain trust within the Presidium, and he was planted here with orders to report back to the Secretariat. He would've seen to it that every last person in Groznyj Grad was eliminated, in some sort of personal vendetta against the military."

My lips had formed an involuntary "O" shape. It was easy, with the benefit of hindsight, to look back and remind myself of what a normal, balanced individual Malenkov had seemed to me. I must have looked confused. In truth, I was. I didn't know whether to believe him. Selfishly, I wanted to believe that he had killed the Captain in some sort of jealous tirade, but his reasons were much more… practical. And Colonel Volgin was nothing if not pragmatic. His hands cupped my face, and I found it hard not to trust him. God knows, I fought him in my mind, but the sincerity behind those golden-hued eyes, whether it was genuine or merely fraudulent pretense, made me feel guilty to have even considered distrusting him in the first place. And that was a powerful gift. Yet even as my head lulled submissively into his hands, I probed him further.

"Wouldn't he have changed his name if he was meant to deceive you?" His gloved thumb traced my lower lip, his eyes twitched faintly when I asked the question.

"Khrushchev counted on me assuming that it was too much of a coincidence. He had Aleksandr change his middle name, to avoid a direct association. A poorly thought-out double bluff, as he knows perfectly well that I leave nothing to chance." He overstressed the syllables in the word 'nothing' in such a manner that the tip of his tongue flicked carelessly over his teeth and lips. A deliciously reptilian movement that I did not fail to notice.

"You don't believe me?"

"I want to believe you."

"Then do it."

"They say you're a monster."

"Me?" he soothed, with feigned innocence. He backed me up one step, smiling serenely. "What are monsters if not gods among men with their own agenda?" As my spine came into contact with the paneled wall, I suddenly recognized that I had arrived in exactly the same situation as the night before. A mere twenty four hours ago, I had found myself backed up against this very same wall. My mind flooded with the images that the night had brought.

"You're not God." I said, desperately, in some futile attempt to reverse the situation, to chasten my thoughts. The Colonel laughed, his warm, practiced hands finding the welcoming curves of my hips.

"I'm not so very far from godliness." He pulled my doll-like body to his, as if to emphasize his point, at the same time reminding me of his… anatomical structure.

He was right.

Was he not feared and loved in equal measures amongst his followers? Wasn't his gospel preached and worshipped as faithfully as the Bible?

His fingers closed meticulously around my slender wrists, bruising the tender flesh over small bones that struggled against his powerful grip. With my hands set firmly at my side, my back rigid against the wall, he claimed my lips once more in a potent kiss that stole my breath. His body sparked lividly, to my very pleasant surprise, searing my lips and coercing me into response. Teeth and tongue clashing and retreating feverishly with his, I shocked myself by breaking the kiss, and taking his hand as I led him to his desk. I had developed a taste for the feel of mahogany against my skin, and as it turned out, he appreciated an authoritative hand.

Who would have guessed?

_Notes: This chapter was a relatively short one, just as filler fodder really. The next chapter will feature the grand entrance of Major Ivan Raidenovitch Raikov. Let the hair pulling begin!_


	6. A Major Headache

_A/N: Woo. I'm back from indeterminate hiatus! Hoorah! Thanks very much for the continued support. I appreciate it all. The last few reviews I received actually helped me kick start this chapter, as it had fallen into sad disrepair! So extra thanks to _**Aqua Phoenix1** _for the very encouraging feedback and for clearing up my stupid mistakes while making me sound smarter! Thanks also to my regulars. I have regulars! -_

Disclaimer: I still don't own any Metal Gear Solid characters. I do own Lenusya, which is just as satisfying. Nearly.

**My Pretty Jungle Flower**

Chapter 6

Nearly seven months had flown by since I arrived in Groznyj Grad. Early February had melted in spring and the first few days of August had already been and gone. Life in the facility had continued as normal, with its own idiosyncratic comings and goings. The Colonel and I were still locked in a liaison that neither of us could genuinely explain or understand, nor did we want to. In the beginning, I had been at his beck and call whenever he so desired my company. I understood my position to be his… relief. And I accepted it. Better to serve as a release than to not serve any of his purposes and face the consequences. Yet recently, with silent compromise, I had become more of a – what's the right term? - _consort_. Without ever expressing it overtly, he expected me with him, to be by his side at every corner and every turn. I was even provided with a military uniform. At least, it bore _some_ resemblance of a uniform. Not many military uniforms included a skirt (and an impractically short skirt at that). It was very obviously designed by a man: minimum functionality, maximum exposure.

"_An honorary private. The only one among many that I can trust."_

Perhaps he gave me too much credit, yet even this small amount of respect, coming from him, was earth-shattering. He took counsel with me (though never admitted to it), asking for my advice on matters ranging from how many pounds of flour to order in, to how best to advance on Moscow in a purely hypothetical situation. Of course, at this stage, he knew that I was perfectly aware of his intentions within GRU, so the "purely hypothetical situation" that he spoke of became something of a running joke. He taught me to fire a gun, despite my original protestations. He produced a Makarov and told me I was going to learn to fire it. Of course, I refused politely, folding his fingers back around the handgun. What would I possibly need with a gun? He spent the next few minutes detailing quite unambiguously several situations in which I would need one, until I cracked and snatched the weapon from his hand.

"_Enough, Yevgeny!" _He laughed gruffly, and I punched his upper arm indignantly, succeeding only in hurting my hand when it collided with a granite bicep. But I was already laughing. He was wonderful at doing that.

At first, I was appalling with the weapon. Not only did the tool of death terrify me, it served to remind me of how very far I was from home. As time went on, however, I grew accustomed to the recoil and even began to enjoy using it. It was like… being thrown from a horse. There was the initial pang of shame and shock followed closely by the overwhelming urge to harness the beast, even a surge of anger at how it dared throw me in the first place. Svetlana like to remind me that I had much greater power at my disposal. Nearly seven-foot of the finest Soviet weapon, always primed and ready to fire, more volatile than any gun in the East. And he enjoyed his toys more than anyone.

The great weapons lab of Groznyj Grad was in constant animation from day break to sun down, and occasionally even prior to that. The Colonel's scientists competed each day to come up with proposals for bigger and better weapons, crawling and backstabbing just for the slightest chance to earn his rare approval. He rejected dozens every week. Volgin may have had deep pockets, but he was wise with his money. His current favorite was a light machine gun, which had just sailed through its phase two tests after three years in development. Like a child unwrapping a long-awaited Christmas present, he unveiled the gun and his true self, the deceptively docile façade for a brief moment removed to reveal a sincere happiness I had barely glimpsed before

"_The RPK is a variant of the AKM assault rifle. It has a longer, heavier barrel, a stamped metal bipod and a heavier type of fixed, wooden buttstock. The modified receiver of the RPK can accommodate its larger-diameter barrel. The RPK normally feeds ammunition from either a 40-round curved box magazine or a 75-round spring-loaded drum magazine…"_

He never noticed how I gazed at him with the simplest form of wonder as he rhymed off the details. I often fantasized that he was looking back with the same expression. The soldiers, though, regarded me with new-found suspicion, as my influence upon the Colonel was becoming more profound. Not in any malicious way, naturally, but still in a way that made them uneasy, as if displeasing me would place their lives in danger. At that stage, it might have. A romanticist would have described Volgin's current state as showing all the signs of obsession; the more wary onlooker would have hesitated to make any observations at all. And I didn't. He was still very much the same hulking, sneering giant that I had met in the beginning, just… different. Almost imperceptibly softer. With me, at least.

It was around this time that I began to realize that young Ocelot was beginning to have problems with me. It wasn't hard to see. A snide comment here, a cold shoulder there. He wanted me to notice it, with all the lack of subtlety that only a teenager can muster and still imagine he's being delicate. Of course he was irritable. He was Volgin's infant prodigy. The Colonel was the closest thing to a father that the youngster had ever had, and he had instilled some admirable principles in the Major, as well as some terrifying ones. I gathered that, up until now, no one had ever rivalled Ocelot for Volgin's affections and although it wasn't intentional on my part, he naturally wouldn't take kindly to someone eclipsing him with qualities that he simply could not equal. On a purely physical basis, that was. At least, that's how Ocelot thought of it.

Goodness knows they fought. They would have blazing arguments, exhaust themselves with shouting and then retire to their separate rooms, where each would have a separate story to tell me about how the quarrel started. Typical father/son behavior. I would often sit in Ocelot's room, waiting for him, revelling in that young face, ignited in adolescent rage, his gloved hands wringing his beret irately before he would throw it to the ground.

"_Who does he think he is?"_

"_He's your commanding officer, Major."_

"_He's an idiot!"_

"_Is he, now?"_

"_One of these days, he'll regret treating me like a kid!"_

"_Is that a threat?"_

I would receive a fierce glare for my efforts. Conspiratorial, even. But he would have at least calmed down at this stage, moved in front of his mirror and played quick draw with his reflection, ignoring me.

"_The Colonel has big plans for you, Major." _An attempt to settle him, as I shifted from his chair by the door to stand beside him in the mirror, picking up his discarded beret as I went. He addressed my reflection, as though it were less irritating. What did I know, after all?

"_What do you know!" _

A-ha!

"_Only what he's told you to get you on your back!"_ His face contorted childishly but still completely vitriolic, marring those beautiful features and sharpening his glorious blue eyes with unqualified contempt. I blinked, smiled. He relented, embarrassed by his petulant outburst, and pointed the gun at his image in the mirror.

"_You'd be surprised what you can learn on your back, Major." _I soothed him, replacing his beret carefully. He retracted his weapon slowly, holstered it, and regarded me with an expression that could only be described as stunned hilarity. The look was quickly short-circuited with a whimsical "huh". After that, I left to continue our silent battle another day. As it was, that day arrived sooner than we both thought.

Ever since "Captain" Malenkov's untimely demise six months previous, there had been a noticeable void in the ranks of the junior officers. Although he never said it, I imagined the Colonel was hesitant to fill the position after the last mistake that was actually no fault of his own. He said he was merely anxious to choose the best candidate for the job this time. He spent hours each day reading and rejecting applications and suggestions from officers higher up in GRU, reading them twice for discrepancies. He was a naturally suspicious man, but the "Malenkov Episode", as it had come to be known, had increased his natural paranoia ten-fold. At my gentle, but irrefutable request, the Colonel had allowed Ocelot to assist him in selecting an applicant, as the youngster was the unofficial second-in-command in the facility. The Major took to his task with particular relish and enthusiasm, and for a blessed period something like harmony enveloped the great fortress of Groznyj Grad.

At the end of August, the Colonel called us both to his office. It seemed he had finally narrowed down his search enough to select a "lucky winner". There was something different about him, though, something verging on sinister in his demeanor… more so than usual, that is. Ocelot was already there when I arrived – after all, I still had domestic duties to attend to even if those menial tasks were few and far between these days.

"Sorry I'm late." There was no reply, but I was sure Ocelot rolled his eyes. I moved to a position in the room, just to the right of the Colonel's desk, even though the chair beside the one in which Ocelot sat was vacant. I'd never liked sitting in his office. I never liked to be the proverbial "sitting duck". The Colonel, however, was reclining in his armchair, looking as serene as a nearly seven-foot GRU Colonel could, giving me a look that I'd told him not to give me in front of the Major. He stretched his fingers within the confines of his gloves. We were waiting, and he knew it. Then, quite unceremoniously, he threw a file onto the desk, in front of Ocelot. The Major blinked.

"It's taken a while, but I've found a suitable candidate for the void that our friend, Captain Malenkov, left." He began glancing at me, somewhat accusingly. I ignored it. Ocelot leaned forward, tentatively, and took the file from the desk. I watched the Colonel break into a smile as he read it. Ocelot looked up, his face a mixture of comical puzzlement.

"You're kidding, right?" he said, incredulously. I was intrigued now, and edged closer to Ocelot in an attempt to read the file that he was referring to.

"I don't kid, Major," the Colonel retorted, his face becoming oddly stoic. The youngster lowered the file. He'd seen enough.

"Colonel… I…" he struggled to voice his protestation. "This is a boy scout! He's barely seen active service!" he exclaimed, making an obscure hand gesture. The Colonel simply nodded.

"Remind you of anyone?" he said coolly. I shot him a glance, but he wasn't looking. Ocelot had dropped the file on the table in disbelief, and I had picked it up again, eager to see just who the Colonel had recruited.

Surely not.

I had to admit, Ocelot was right. This young Lieutenant was little more than a child with a gun. His parents were wealthy land-owners and his grandfather had been an Admiral in the Navy. He had been home-schooled until the age of eighteen, at which stage his parents paid his way through Officer Training School. There was a note attached saying that the lad had barely scraped through his medical, but that his parents had provided substantial motive for GRU officials to turn their heads. These were lean times, after all. He finished Officer School and went immediately to work for a GRU Lieutenant Colonel Chzov, as a military assistant.

Ocelot was speaking again.

"He doesn't have the experience! The most he's seen of battle is the dust cloud of a shell explosion from a mile away!" he spluttered, becoming more and more desperate to get his point across. "He's a secretary, Colonel!"

"Perhaps that's what we need around here, Major; we seem to be up to our ears in fool-hardy, gun-happy, juggling clowns." The Colonel rejoined, looking to me as if he expected me to laugh. As it was, I snapped shut the file tersely and fixed him with an uncompromising expression. When I turned back to Ocelot, his face had dropped, his shoulders had slumped. He was defeated. But what was worse than that, when he looked up again I could see that he was legitimately hurt.

In the military, "beasting" was an everyday occurrence (and even more so in Groznyj Grad). It was structured torture, designed to break a man down and rebuild him into a tenacious but conscientious serviceman. I witnessed all sorts of physiological and psychological beasting. For the simple crime of talking back to the sergeant or having a spot of grime on your uniform during daily inspection, a soldier was sent to the _Starshina_ (1)for punishment. This punishment was wide-ranging, from a ten-mile run through the jungle to a series of rigorous and exhausting physical trials in the yard, while the _Starshina_ shouted insults in your ear. One of the Colonel's favorites, although he was only directly responsible for beasting in the most extreme cases, was to make the delinquent in question perform push-ups while balancing on three barrels, one under his feet and one under each hand. Gradually, the two barrels under his hands were moved apart and he was ordered to remain balanced in this position, sometimes for hours. It sounded simple, but it was quite possibly one of the most excruciating and draining ordeals a soldier would ever go through, short of being tortured by the enemy. The theory was that if the solider took his punishment with dignity, he'd be one step closer to promotion and an officer's rank.

I doubt Ocelot had ever been beasted, and if he had, it would have been half-hearted to say the least. He was an accomplished "beaster", of course (he learned from the best), but he was too treasured amongst the GRU ranks to ever be exposed to any real form of torment. Yet, standing where I was, watching the Major crumple in front of me, this particular situation seemed to be the worse form of psychological suffering that he'd ever faced.

"Did you even… look at any of my suggestions?" he ventured, his sentence broken, but his voice never faltering. It seemed his expression was not completely lost on the Colonel, who cleared his throat and leaned forward, ignoring the Major's comment entirely.

"He'll be here at 1900 hours, Major. I'll see you on the helipad."

There was silence, where everyone seemed to freeze, broken only when Ocelot's chair scraped across the floor as he stood, delivering one of the most anguished salutes I'd ever seen.

"Colonel, sir," he acknowledged lamely, before turning and leaving the room. I stared at the closed door for a long moment, before beginning to replace the file in accordance with the Colonel's very specific system. He could tell from my very body language exactly what I was thinking.

"It's the best thing for him. He's had it easy until now. I'm just giving him the incentive he needs to really impress me."

"Who are you trying to convince, Yevgeny?" I answered, my back turned on him aggressively as I worked away within the treacherous filing system. I heard him sigh wearily, so I turned. "You'll know about it when he becomes so disillusioned that he forgets who he works for." I challenged. He snorted.

"Ocelot wouldn't betray me," he said confidently. "He isn't smart enough."

At this, I took umbrage.

"You know so little about him. You really do. He'll show you one day…"

He laughed soothingly, holding out his hand, which I begrudgingly took. He drew me into his lap, where I was still determined to seem aloof and standoffish, but I could only turn my head from him a few times until he took my chin, told me my hip bone was jabbing him in the most objectionable of places and made me laugh until I cried.

"Come now, Lenusya, a little healthy competition won't hurt the boy," he said into the curve of my ear, as I lolled luxuriously against his chest.

Little did I know that it would be me, not Ocelot, battling for the Colonel's affections.

-----

The helicopter arrived only minutes later than scheduled. Things rarely ran off schedule in Groznyj Grad, especially when the Colonel was waiting. It was a civilian helicopter, quite unlike the enormous Mi-24's which were being developed in extreme secrecy in the weapons lab. NATO would have killed for a peak inside the labs. At the side of the helipad stood the Colonel, the Major and myself. Ocelot looked as if he may vomit. The helicopter landed, and there was long moment where nothing happened. The propeller seemed to remain in perpetual motion for much longer than normal. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what was to come that made the moment so unbearable. Ocelot's fingers were flexing at his side, and I got the impression that he was nervous as I.

The propeller finally stilled. More silence. The door opened and our new recruit finally descended, stiffly, but quite properly. Attired to the nines, in full GRU regalia, an officer's uniform no less. Perfectly immaculate. Yet, I could see the expression on both the men to my right turn to something like vague amusement when we all noticed the baby blonde hair, worn much too long, peeking out from under his cap. Either his provided photograph had been taken some time ago, or he had worn his wispy tresses up but this young man was certainly different from the one we had seen in his file.

Just what Groznyj Grad needed: another attractive blonde officer.

He walked with a certain authority, but with definite wariness in the way he carried himself that paid homage to his inferiority, at least in current company. He seemed to frog march himself towards us, much faster than I was comfortable with, before he stamped his right foot and went into the straightest, most practiced salute I'd ever had the privilege and complete bewilderment to witness. _My God, but he was stunning!_ In the most disturbing and ambiguous way, a manner that was at the same time effeminate and distinctly masculine. A little juxtaposition in a GRU uniform!

"Colonel Volgin, sir! Lieutenant Ivan Raidenovitch Raikov reporting for top secret military duties in Groznyj Grad, sir!" he cried. It was a sound that I'd heard before, belonging to a vixen artic fox who was calling for her cubs.

Now, the Colonel looked perfectly terrified. This boyish recruit with the baby blonde hair was almost louder than he was! Ocelot gritted his teeth, before exploding.

"Lower your hand, you idiot!" he snapped, viciously. "You may as well put a neon sign on the Colonel's chest telling enemy snipers where to shoot! And while we're at it, it's unwise to announce in a loud voice in a military facility that is under constant scrutiny from enemy spies that you're reporting for top secret military duties! Are we clear, Lieutenant?" With this, he took an intimidating step forward, bringing him nose to nose with the new recruit.

Now, Ocelot's warnings were all theoretically true. The soldiers rarely saluted the Colonel outside of the relative safety of the fortress, and the helipad was indeed a way removed from the facility, abutting the edge of the jungle, where a hypothetical spy could be lurking. After the incident with 'Captain' Malenkov we couldn't be too careful, especially since Khrushchev now had at least some idea of the magnitude of the extremist movement in the East. Seemingly, the beasting, for Lieutenant Raikov, had begun early. He and Ocelot were matched in height, but the Lieutenant seemed to have the advantage in brawn, if not wit. Still, however well-built he was, that monstrously pretty face that begged that eternal gender question countered any imposition of strength or power.

I broke into a smile; Lieutenant Raikov lowered his hand gingerly to his side, suitably chastised. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, in which the Lieutenant's fingers clenched self-consciously. The Colonel spoke, and the recruit's posture stiffened once more.

"You'll have to forgive the Major, Lieutenant Raikov. He tends to see a newcomer less as a new recruit and more of a new…" he paused, inhaled, and the Lieutenant seemed to lean forward expectantly. "Chewtoy," he finished, smiling strangely. Raikov smiled too. I frowned. Ocelot looked disorientated. There was another long, strange silence after which the Colonel spoke again. "Welcome to our humble mad house, Lieutenant. I trust you'll feel at home," and he turned to walk away, taking my elbow as he went, moving me in the same direction as he was going whether I liked it or not. There wasn't much point in protesting; if he wanted to move me, he would!

"See that the Lieutenant settles in." Was all he said. I stuck out my bottom lip petulantly.

"Why do I have to do it?" I whined. The Colonel looked at Ocelot, who was still staring rather bemusedly at the new Lieutenant, and looked back to me.

"I know who I'd rather have tucking me into bed," he grinned, and began walking back towards the facility, chuckling to himself.

-----

I'd directed the Lieutenant to his rather comfortable quarters right away, shown him the laundry room, which he'd probably never see again, but he'd asked, so I'd obliged. I'd gotten him some towels, told him when breakfast was served in the Officer's mess and even, at his request, told him about the other girls who were working there. His room was agreeable - nowhere near the standard that the Colonel's had been furnished to, but perfectly adequate. A desk, double bed, bookcase, filing cabinet and affixed washroom were his only meagre fixtures, but plenty of space and a south facing window gave it plenty of potential.

He seemed genuinely appreciative. And likeable. And this was inconvenient, as I'd made up my mind in advance to dislike him. I began to make my excuses to leave when he started questioning me as he walked around his new habitat, tossing his cap onto the bed and exposing the sheer brilliance of that flowing hair. I was suddenly very wary of my own.

"I didn't know the Colonel had many women working under him…" he observed, pleasantly, making conversation that I'd just as soon he didn't. I had to stifle a laugh, but when he looked embarrassed, I straightened my face.

"He doesn't… as far as I know. Just Agnessa, Natalya, Svetlana and myself," I returned, trying to be equally pleasant and failing. He nodded, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then made a second attempt.

"So what is it you do here exactly, Miss…?"

"Lenusya is fine, Lieutenant," I provided quickly, wringing my hands as I thought of an appropriate answer. Maid? Cook? Cleaner? Seamstress? Laundry girl? Concubine…?

"I'm just a general dog's body, really…" I finally settled on a somewhat cryptic response. He looked at me suspiciously, apparently not completely satisfied with my answer. "If there's nothing else, Lieutenant…" I said quietly, unnerved. His lips pursed faintly and he shook his head. I turned to walk out the door.

"The Colonel's an interesting… character, isn't he?" he called after me. I paused, moistened my lips and turned around again to face him.

"Yes… in my opinion." I replied, quietly but quickly. He continued to look at me skeptically, clearly dismayed by my tight-lipped approach to him. I'd been far too open and negligent with 'Captain' Malenkov, and refused to do the same with Raikov. Satisfied that he'd gotten everything he could from me, at least for now, he motioned for me to take my leave, which I gratefully did.

I found the Colonel in the connecting passageway to the West Wing of the Weapons lab, where he was surveying what he could of Groznyj Grad from the window.

"It's raining," he commented dryly.

"It's always raining," I replied, coming to his side and looking from the window. I couldn't explain then what made me move so close to him and I couldn't explain now but for some strange reason he offered me the comfort that I so desperately needed. He reached out and took me within the crook of his strong arm without having even glanced sideways to gauge my disposition. Apparently, the simple tone of my voice betrayed me and begged for his consideration.

"I love you," I said in the silence.

"I know." Was all I received.

----

(1) The _Starshina_ was the highest ranking non-commissionedofficer amongst conscripts in the Soviet Amy.


End file.
